


Sense Memory

by Felle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felle/pseuds/Felle
Summary: Yusuke, whose world comes to him in impressionistic bursts and flashes, wonders if he's good enough at all to be part of the Phantom Thieves.





	Sense Memory

Sharp heat cutting across his face. A flood of pain from a stray ember opening his cheek. Twists in his stomach from falling back. Air rushing from his lungs at the impact. Shouts, scrambling. The sharp report of gunshot after gunshot, stinging into his ears. A wet hiss to mark the shadow’s demise and collapse. Dizziness. Another gunshot. A curse on his lips, uttered between rattling gasps for air. Yusuke begins sitting up, the world still unfocused, when a pair of arms wrap around him. Twinned smells of sweat and gunpowder. Labored breaths bouncing him ever so gently. A carmine glove holding his leg in place. A pinprick gleam of reflected, sourceless light from the black accents of his mask. “I can walk,” Yusuke says.

“It’s no trouble.”

Words he couldn’t believe, for all their reassurance. Akira carries him to the bus and settles him into the back row with the greatest care. “Queen, you drive back. That was the last request we had. We’re done here.”

Makoto’s rides are the smoothest, as expected from the only one of them with a license. Ann and Ryuji’s conversation melts into cacophony as he reflects on his mistakes in their last fight. Too much risk, not enough finesse. Foolish. Inexcusable. He no longer has the excuse of being the newcomer for his inability to keep up with the others. Akira carefully removes his mask and sets it in his lap, laying his cuts bare. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

Soft eyes. The cold gray of steel. Guarded. Concerned. One glove slides from its hand, held in place by one of the fingers between his teeth. Another burn through his body, undercut with a pang of guilt for so enjoying the attentions. “Not overmuch.”

An unconvinced twitch of his mouth. Akira produces the handkerchief from his breast pocket. The soft rub of silk on his cheek. Coppery blood staining the fabric. Marring it. A stinging aftershock making his head move. The cupped hand against his cheek, holding him still. All the words bouncing around in his heart, stabbing, cutting. Gnawing absence when he inevitably pulls away, satisfied with his work. “That ought to be fine once we’re back in Tokyo.”

“My thanks,” Yusuke says.

For all its warm haze, the walls and floors of Mementos are cold and hard when Yusuke sits near the entrance with the others, waiting for Akira to finish…whatever it is he does when he ducks into that odd, shimmering corner of the antechamber. Their gazes bore into him. Annoyance, pity. He can’t tell. He isn’t sure he wants to know. Yusuke curls tighter around his sword and rifle. Ann tries asking him about his art and receives only an apologetic look and a gesture at the cut across his cheek. She either understands or gives up. Small bumps from the rifle stock tapping on the floor. A single soft whap from his outfit’s tail when Akira emerges, cognizant of the world once more. Hopeless, truly. All of them get to their feet at once and follow him to the exit.

Oppressive heat, air heavy with the roll of approaching rain. His body crying out for rest, battered, bruised, overextended. Neon signs blinking, flashing on every surface. Too many cicadas, voices, car horns, trains grinding on their rails in the station below. Too much. Too much. His hands press to his ears to try and shut out some of it. Fruitless. Weight shifting from heel to heel as goodbyes are said, as Ryuji and Ann take their line and Makoto takes hers. Morgana’s big blue eyes looking at him from within Akira’s bag until he turns to face Yusuke. “Good, that cut didn’t carry over.”

His cheek is cold and clammy, still sensitive from its memory of being split open, scrambling to make sense of the sudden repair. The arm that brings his hand up to touch it is so very sore. Absent nodding. Difficult, half-formed thoughts swirling. His mouth twists to keep from revealing more disappointment. This decision—as much a decision as breathing—isn’t much of one at all. Necessary all the same. Aches in his shoulders as he squares them, bracing. “Do you have any engagements tonight?” he asks. His mouth is dry. “I wanted to speak with you. Privately.”

The glasses that soften Akira’s face do nothing to hide the searching gaze behind them, trying to divine the meaning under his words. But Yusuke knows very well how to hide himself. How not to draw attention or ire. That scar runs deep. Healing it stands beyond the capacity of anything but time. Perhaps. Another trouble, another day. Akira gestures to the line gates nearby, easy and casual, practiced to seem unthreatening. “I was going to the baths near Leblanc, they have the medicinal blend tonight. Why don’t you join me? My treat.”

Too kind by half. How many _treats_ had he enjoyed from his friends, train fare and meals and the little sundries that exceeded his school stipend? More and more that he was in no position to repay. A leech gorged on the blood of others, wearing a fox’s skin. “Thank you.”

Short train ride. Not short enough. Stale, unrecycled air, hard to breathe. Too warm, too much noise, too many bodies, too few seats. Akira pressed to his chest by the crush of people. Wet, liquid heat pooling low, fighting the bruises for his attention. Guilty pleasure. Guilt, guilt, overpowering. A sparing lie betrayed by the honesty of his body, forcing his hips to roll back. Sharpening senses as his eyes close. Morgana rolling around in Akira’s bag, scratching over the chatter of the people around them. The clean scent of his shampoo. The too-warm metal of the pole he grips for dear life.

Yongen is quiet. Calm. Chirping grasshoppers, shoes splashing through lingering puddles, buzzing streetlights. Things his overtaxed mind can filter out. Coffee and curry, wafting through the air. Growls in his stomach, politely ignored. Had he eaten breakfast that morning? Lunch? Likely not. Akira kneels down in front of the baths and lets Morgana out to prowl.

Some dark irony has turned his body into a canvas, mottled with splotches of yellow and blue bruises in various sizes and stages of forming. Bitter laughs catch in his throat. Looking at himself, he seems more appropriate for a charnel house than a bath. Lukewarm water beats down and washes away the soap he had applied. That everything could be so easily purged. Yusuke rolls his eyes and curls in on himself, hyperaware of Akira behind him at the opposite wall.

Either they beat the rush or miss it entirely, leaving fully half the bath open for them. They crowd into a corner anyway, near the tap. Heavy steam. Warmth pressing down from all sides on his legs, hips, chest, arms. Embarrassing sounds of relief cracking from deep in his chest. Momentary stings on his face as he sinks in up to his cheek, aggravating the phantom wound there. Some death wish flashing the idea of descending the rest of the way into his mind, of sparing him the trouble of everything. Wet locks of hair matting down on his neck.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Akira asks with a glance at Yusuke’s blotched shoulder. One hand descends toward it, stopping without making contact. Yusuke stares at it, as if he can will it downward and close that distance. His gaze slips, defying his better judgment, to the rest of Akira. The lines of his neck, the smooth prominence of his chest, the shifting outline of his body in the water, creeping down, lower, lower…Yusuke jams his legs together. He could sicken himself with how little discipline he had.

“Only a few bumps, nothing more. This is what I wanted to speak to you about.” A quick glance to check for eavesdroppers. Fingers drumming on one thigh. Flips in his stomach, last-second panic, the thought of backing out. No. His scraps of pride refused to allow him to weigh down the only people who had shown him kindness. Low, scratchy words, leaving foul tastes on his tongue. That soft, understanding smile from Akira making this so much harder than he knew. “I think I should resign from the Phantom Thieves.”

Ripples in the water from the shift of Akira’s body. A concerned expression he can’t bear to meet. Words whispered to keep them from carrying. Butterflies in his stomach. Disappointment. “Why?”

The press of Akira’s hand on his arm, marking his presence, their connection. Drinking it in greedily. Dry mouth. “Please don’t misunderstand this as me doubting the justice of the things we’ve done. I hold the rest of you back.” It hangs in the air between them for a moment. “I’m not as strong as Ryuji or as skilled with my persona as Ann or Morgana, and Makoto is a stronger blend of the two than I am. What reason is there for me to burden you all?”

Silence from them both. Drops of water dripping from the tap. Ripples as someone climbs out. The astringent scent of the medicinal salts. Akira shifts closer. “Everyone has off days—”

“To be honest, today wasn’t the first time I’ve thought of doing this. Ever since the bank, when I felt myself completely overmatched by Makoto’s skill…” Stinging heat in his eyes. Tears rolling down into the water. Too much ache in his arms to reach up and wipe them away. Sinking to his chin. The grip on his arm growing firmer. “I would be happy to keep making skill cards for you. To keep your secrets. But please, don’t compromise the strength of the team for my sake. That would be irresponsible of you, as the leader.”

 _The_ leader. Not _our_ leader. Final nail in the coffin, falling flush with the wood. One more meeting to say his farewells to the others before returning to his school drudgery. But it was beautiful while it lasted—

“No.”

Fingernails pressing into his skin. Hard, final tones. Joker’s voice. A shiver despite the warm water. Thoughts reeling, scrambling for a response. “No?”

“No. I don’t accept your resignation.”

Akira’s thumb on his cheek again, wiping away tear lines. Softness he craved, didn’t deserve. His breath rolling over the water’s surface. “I won’t accept it now, or tomorrow, or any other day. Not when you have skills none of the others have, and not when you’re my friend.”

Friend. Symmetrical, equal relationship. Nothing about any of his so-called friendships feels symmetrical. All take, no give. Draining them slowly, under that guise. “Akira…”

Arms wrapping around his shoulders. Odd looks from the other side of the room. Mutters, whispers. Akira’s cheek against his. A small flash of something he can never have. “Have you eaten today?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know. “Come back to Leblanc with me. I’ll make you curry.”

Dangerous game. Too many cracks in the dam already. Feelings spilling out. Too many things he can let slip in a vulnerable moment. Likely rejection. Anger. Like the last time. Hunger overriding his better judgment. “If you insist.”

Fabric scratching on his skin. Lingering soreness. The bump of tile against his forehead. Why? Akira doesn’t need to spare his feelings, or feed him. So much kindness. Overwhelming. Undeserved. More tears, hastily dried. Hot air past the exit. Akira’s hand clasping his. Heavy sighs.

Bitter tones of coffee, sharp spices from curry. Soft yellow incandescence. _Sayuri_ hanging in its place by the door. Sakura doing a crossword puzzle at the bar, sipping a drink. The acrid stench of the extinguished cigarette in his hand.

Chimes from the bell on the door to mark his departure. Comments about ingredients in the refrigerator. Placid talk from a news anchor on the television. Akira shuts it off and pulls out a chair at the bar for him. The microwave heats up something to tide him over. Crunchy. Cool in the middle. More salt than he’s used to. Yusuke isn’t even sure what it is. More silence. Comfortable. Companionable. No expectance. Nothing to do but gorge himself on the sight of Akira in his apron.

Piping-hot decaf. Muted flavors in his curry the way he likes, so as not to shred his diminished palate. Akira takes his own plate on the other side of the bar, opposite him. Clinks of cutlery on their plates. Spice and satisfied growls from his stomach. His host twirling his fork between his fingers in between bites. A short trip to his mental gutter to immortalize the sight of Akira’s…dexterity. The slight sting from his lip rolling between his teeth.

“Stay the night,” Akira says suddenly. Gray eyes, unreadable behind the glasses now, eroding his already-wavering resolve. Tears welling up, refusing to fall. “I rented some movies. You can have the bed this time, if you like.”

Short snickers. Another foray into Akira’s sanctum. Some god’s cruel joke, dangling the forbidden fruit in front of him. The dull tap of Akira’s shoes on the floor as he comes around the bar. “Trying to convince me to stay?”

“Yes.” A stark admission. Refreshing in its honesty. His breath leaving as Akira descends in him from behind. Another irksome twist of fate that he enjoyed Akira’s affections in the same way he expressed them. His hands closing on Akira’s forearms. Safety. Danger. Akira’s touch is fire, his weakness. “I know I can’t stop you from walking away. But Fox isn’t holding anyone back, and Yusuke is my friend. How can I convince you?”

The warm roll of his breath, seasoned with the curry. So weak. Like livestock being led happily to its slaughter. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Akira lingers to clean their dishes, ushering him ahead. Floorboards creaking under Yusuke’s feet. Shifting shadows from the wavering of the bare lightbulb. The replica nude statue from Ueno sitting beside Akira’s shelves. Morgana slumbering in his bed on the table by the stairs. A hidden little space in the city. The bed sags slightly under his weight.

Their movie for the night is a blur of meaningless colors and sounds. Not a scrap of focus spared. All of it rests with Akira beside him on the bed. Lips parting ever so slightly. Shifting now and then to stay comfortable. One hand falling on the sheets between them and resting on Yusuke’s. Exquisite torture. Silent crying, well-practiced, unnoticed by his bedmate. Exposed at the credits. “I didn’t think my taste in movies was that bad,” Akira says with a lopsided grin.

Stains on his sleeve from wiping his face dry. Memories, unbidden, unwanted, unwelcome. Fingers dragging on his cheek. His own, then Akira’s. The polite fiction that he could be brought around had to end. His last desperate measure spills out before he can think better of it. “He only hit me once,” Yusuke says. Akira’s gentle hand tightening into a fist atop his. Something thick in his throat, coloring his voice with sorrow. “Madarame, I mean. Only once, last year. When I said that I liked a boy in my class. I thought he was angry that I let myself be distracted from my art…I know better now.”

Weight pressing down on his chest. Struggling for shallow breaths. Turning away, bracing. He wonders if the punches will hurt more than the rejection, considering the bruises.

“Do you hate me?”

Silence. Crushing. Not even a shift on the bed. Burning in his eyes. “I treasure your friendship, Akira. But I can no longer pretend that my feelings end for you there, or that it isn’t painful to enjoy your casual touches. If you can forgive me the tired cliché of falling hopelessly in love with my savior…only say the word, and I will leave. None of you will have to deal with me again.”

What a wealth that an absence of words could say. How much could he stand out before society simply wouldn’t have him? “I’ll leave, then,” he says, clambering to the edge of the bed and standing up. He can’t bear to turn around. Cracks in his chest, caving in. “Thank you for the curry, and treating at the baths. It may take some time to repay you for my equipment, but I’ll set aside some of my stipend every week. And for everything else…thank you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be different.”

“Yusuke.”

Scornless. Unjudging. Was it going to hurt more for the kindness? A soft rejection would pierce deeper than any slap or crack across his face. Shuffling. Creaking floorboards. Yusuke hunches his shoulders, contemplates bolting for the stairs. He would fall, with his luck. “Please don’t cry.”

Trembling. Akira’s hand threading up with his, leading him slowly back to the bed where he can sit. Pressure in his lap from Akira sitting atop his legs. Soft flashes of heat as his tears are kissed away. Flutters in his heart with each one, drawing closer to his lips. Refusing to pinch himself for fear that he might wake up.

Salt. Sweat. Curry. Warmth. His first kiss, stolen away in an instant by a phantom thief, sparking another wave of tears. Disbelieving. Jubilant. Starbursts under his eyelids. Gentle sweeps of Akira’s thumbs to wipe his face dry.

Breaking for air. Remembering to breathe. _How_ to breathe. Gasps. Unsteady rises and falls of his chest. Akira discarding his glasses. “How could you ask something like that?” Wounded, like arrows piercing his voice. “I could never hate you.”

Needful heat pooling between his legs. Stiffness. A whine in his throat. “Truly?” Yusuke asks. One arm closing around Akira’s waist. Has he died? Is his body lying at the bottom of the baths while some feverish dream closes out his life? Unsteadiness. Doubt. “Please, don’t taunt me, this isn’t necessary to try and make me stay—”

Fabric stretching. Akira pulling down his collar. Faded lines on his collarbone Yusuke hadn’t noticed before. “My parents didn’t have a great reaction to hearing about who I liked, either.”

Spates of relief underpinned with sympathetic anger. Wanting to kiss the pain away as he had wished for himself all those months ago. More tears. Akira’s lips again. Fire licking through him. More disbelief. Desire crowding out his thoughts.

The mattress and bedsheets against his back. Akira over him. Kisses along his throat, hands racing up his sides. A growing arch in his posture. “Akira.” Heavy sounds. Hard to speak. One hand resting on his stomach as Akira sits up. “Please, let me see you.”

Jacket sleeves sliding down his shoulders. Suspenders falling free. Awkward twists of his body to do away with his shirt. Slim, firm tone from all their time in the Metaverse. Loveliness. Quiet dedication. The mark he pointed out before, blending into the canvas of his body. Such a remarkably different atmosphere from the workmanlike disrobing at the bathhouse. Intimate, personal, only for him. Slow sinks and swells of Akira’s chest. Dryness in his throat.

“Well?” Akira asks. The low trills of Joker’s voice, drawing up gooseflesh. Slow shifts as he eases off Yusuke. One casual hand slowly creeping around his. Kisses on the backs of his fingers. A look blazing-hot enough to melt him. “Do I get to see you, too?”

The world rotating as he sits up. Nervous energy stealing away his dexterity, fumbling with the too-small buttons of his shirt. Each beat of his heart colliding with his ribs. Burning. Wanting. Embarrassment at the poke of his bones against his skin. Flimsy. Gaunt. Flesh stretched over a skeleton. Arms falling over him. Pressure. Comfort. Safe harbor from the storm in his mind.

“Stay.” Akira’s voice again. Higher, less certain. More human. Hands exploring the planes of his back. Soft fingers on the ridges of his spine. Whispers in the crook of his neck. “Please?”

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

Another kiss. Nails raking down his body. Trousers falling in the heap of their clothes. Needful, pooling heat. Stiffness. Hazy thoughts narrowing down to desire. Whispers, low and conspiratorial. Akira’s lips trailing the insides of his legs. Moans. Bites. Bruises in his wake. His _tongue_ —

Burning. Pressure building, winding tight like a coil. The slow bob of messy black hair. Biting down on his hand to hold out. Failing. Gasping. Squirming, mumbled apologies. Akira’s chuckle, his hands still exploring. Wanting. Falling into each other’s gravity. Tentativeness, laughing as they play at adulthood. Ease. A bottle of something, fumbled with in between kisses.

Slick heat, worked delicately into his skin. Deep breaths. Akira’s hand lacing up with his. Pressing, relaxing against the urge to tense. Fullness, scorching, struggling to adjust. The flashing urge to turn away, to retire this endeavor rather than fail.

Soft words to salve the pain. Pleasure slowly supplanting discomfort. Careful movements, hands clasping. Moans cracking from his chest. Rhythm, rocking, harsh breaths into hot, still air. Sweat beading, trickling. Akira’s hand tightening in his. Rising, crashing crescendos. Controlled furor. Passion running wild, restrained. One final, bold stroke across the canvas.

Bliss.

The glide of the bedsheets draped over them. Words hiding in his throat, refusing to spill out. Akira’s arms holding him, legs tangled together. The soft rise and fall of his chest. Calm, even breaths rolling along Yusuke’s collarbone. Is he asleep? No light, no silent way to tell. Complete, utter stillness, dead to the world but for his warmth.

“Akira?”

Barely even a whisper, no more than a rumble in his chest riding an exhalation. The hand on his back shifting in place as his only answer. Envy. Sleep never comes easy to him. Perhaps tonight. Moving closer under the covers despite the heat. Serenity. Balance. Calm. Eyes closing. “I love you.”

A hitch in Akira’s breathing. His stomach knotting as the hand on his back tightens, then relaxes. Comfort. Safety. Peace. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading! If you liked this, you may be interested in some of my other _Persona_ work:
> 
> [A Portrait of the Shogi Player as a Young Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805870) – Yusuke and Hifumi’s Valentine’s date.
> 
> [Empress’s Justice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770388) – Haru goes back and finds a fatally wounded Akechi in Shido’s palace.
> 
> [Fool’s Judgment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370858/chapters/33177117) – The lead-up to, and aftermath of, Sae’s palace if she and Joker were dating.
> 
> [High Priestess, pǝʇɹǝʌuI](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16708519/chapters/39187396) – Genderswapped (sort of) High Priestess confidant, featuring my rabid little honey badger of a female protagonist, Akane
> 
> [I Guess This Sort of Thing Really Does Happen…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855355) – Sae stashes Joker at Kawakami’s place following the interrogation.
> 
> [Kintsukuroi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760477/chapters/34131807) – Some scenes from a setting where Sae and Yusuke are an item.
> 
> [Our Last Private Moments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092479) (Persona 3) – Theo and his guest's last date.
> 
> [Singles’ Retreat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556390) – Rather than tag along with any of their friends in relationships, Haru rents out a ryokan for herself, Ryuji and Yusuke for a week. What ever shall they do to keep themselves busy? (Yusuke/Haru/Ryuji, incredibly NSFW)
> 
> [Temperance, pǝʇɹǝʌuI](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355578/chapters/35631108) – Genderswapped Temperance confidant, featuring a romantic bent and my rabid little honey badger of a female protagonist, Akane.
> 
> [Weekends in Shibuya](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697408) – A little future Sae/Joker piece I did for a friend when they were sick.


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